


An Inch, A Mile

by Lurlur



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, baby steps, greek philosophy - Freeform, hand holding, you go too fast for me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:21:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25092289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur
Summary: Sometime after the apocalypse had been averted, Aziraphale realises that Crowley is still holding back from everything he wants. After all that they've been through, Aziraphale needs to redefine "too fast".
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 43
Kudos: 246
Collections: Break in Case of Emergency: Fluff and Love





	An Inch, A Mile

**Author's Note:**

> Written because the feral energy of DIWS compelled me to. You guys rock and I love how feral we can get over something as simple as hand holding!
> 
> My thanks to MovesLikeBucky for the beta work!

Crowley is silent as they collect their coats before leaving the Ritz, he looks pensive and a little withdrawn as if there’s something troubling on his mind. As he buttons his coat, Aziraphale internally debates whether he should broach the subject or let Crowley share it in his own time. This is hardly the first time they’ve had lunch at the Ritz since that whole business with the Antichrist and almost ending the world, and certainly far from the only time they’ve spent together now that no one is watching over them.

Aziraphale can’t imagine what could possibly be troubling Crowley on such a lovely day. It’s crisply cold and dry in that way that’s perfect for hiding under a blanket with a hot drink and a lovely book. No one has bothered them in months. He’s just starting to wonder if Crowley had said something during lunch that Aziraphale should have taken better notice of when Crowley gives himself a little shake and turns a relaxed smile on Aziraphale’s confusion.

“After you,” he says as the doorman reaches to let them out onto the street.

Aziraphale smiles and glances up through his lowered lashes, always so delighted to be on the receiving end of Crowley’s gallantry.

“Thank you, dear.” Aziraphale steps onto the street, tugging at the sleeves of his coat. “Can I interest you in a drink or two back at the bookshop?”

Crowley huffs lightly, a smirk curling his lips.

“Just one or two, angel? Is it Lent already?”

His gentle teasing relaxes Aziraphale further, pushing the concern of his earlier demeanour clean out of Aziraphale’s head. With an answering swat on the arm, Aziraphale grumbles good-naturedly and feels himself blush under Crowley’s pleased expression. The teasing feels more pointed these days, like there’s something underneath that Crowley can’t bring himself to give voice.

They turn in the direction of the bookshop but before Aziraphale can take a step, Crowley makes a soft noise in his throat and offers his elbow. His face is turned up and away as if he can’t bear to watch Aziraphale’s reaction and that stings a little, the suggestion that Aziraphale might reject such a kind and longed-for offer.

Gently, carefully, Aziraphale slips his hand into the crook of Crowley’s elbow and gives a little reassuring squeeze of his forearm. They walk on together without exchanging a word.

They have walked beside each other for thousands of years, naturally falling into step together without a thought. This time, though, Aziraphale wants to think about it. He takes the time to notice how Crowley shortens his stride to account for Aziraphale’s natural gait, how Crowley steers them effortlessly around obstructions and keeps Aziraphale on the safer side of the pavement, how he slows just before they pass the fancy French bakery so that Aziraphale can take his time gazing through the window. He does these things and a thousand more all without conscious thought.

It takes Aziraphale’s breath away to realise how natural it feels to walk beside Crowley like this, their bodies touching, moving as one unit through the crowds. And it was nothing, the offer of an elbow, that has led him to this realisation.

This, Aziraphale knows with sudden certainty,  _ this _ is what had Crowley, his brave, cautious Crowley, worked up into a state of anxiety and worry. His fear that this simple gesture might be rejected, even after everything they had been through together, everything they are to each other.

Suddenly, the window full of sweet treats is no longer appetising. Aziraphale’s mouth is dry and his head feels light, there’s a weight in his stomach like he’s swallowed a rock.

What  _ are _ they to each other? They’ve never spoken about it, not really. It’s all been loaded looks and words so wrapped in double meanings and euphemism that the deniability had overtaken the intent. Aziraphale loves Crowley, he knows that. And he knows that Crowley loves him. But does Crowley know? Do they love in the same ways? The Greeks had words for this, Aziraphale muses as he walks on, his fingers subtly stroking the fine wool of Crowley’s sleeve.

Eros, definitely, Aziraphale is sure that he feels eros for Crowley and, although the ancient Greeks might scold him for the impossibility, he feels pragma too. His feelings are romantic and enduring, managing to be both fresh and exciting whilst also worn in and comfortable.

Glancing at Crowley’s face, much closer than it would usually be, Aziraphale feels a shiver of doubt. What if Crowley’s love is philia or storge? What if centuries of rebuke had soured whatever eros Crowley had once felt until only philia remained?

The need to know burns inside Aziraphale until he’s sure that Crowley must be able to feel it radiating off him. He tears his eyes away from Crowley and stares blankly ahead, his thoughts running around his mind at a thousand miles per hour.

They reach Piccadilly Circus with its giant screens, nonsensical street markings, tourist crowds, and the dry fountain. A thought forms at the sight of the Shaftesbury memorial fountain, spurred onwards by the winged figure at its peak.

Like all finicky know-it-alls, Aziraphale is well aware that the statue atop the fountain is Anteros, the Greek god of selfless love. Humans do so love to give things their own meaning, though, and all the signs have long since referred to it as the Eros Fountain. Something about this duality lights up the part of Aziraphale where he is brave. He knows that bravery is the only way to resolution and that to expect more from Crowley is selfish. It’s his turn to step into the unknown.

“Alright there, angel?” Crowley asks, his voice breaking through Aziraphale’s fog of thoughts.

“Hm?” he responds eloquently before realising that his fingers have clenched into a fist around Crowley’s sleeve. He relaxes his grip and smooths the fabric gently. “Yes, sorry, away with the fairies for a moment,” he says with a smile and Crowley seems content enough with that answer.

Walking on, Aziraphale gathers his nerve. He understands now why Crowley was so worried about rejection. Even knowing how much love exists between them, the thought of having this glacial advance spurned would wound him deeply. And Aziraphale has spurned Crowley so many times.

Slowly, carefully, Aziraphale slides his hand down Crowley’s forearm until his fingers are brushing the edge of his cuff. Crowley’s hand is tucked into his coat pocket, protecting him from the cold air, making Aziraphale’s mission a little trickier. He’s having to walk even closer to Crowley now, their hips practically joined, and that would be distracting enough but Crowley is tensing beside him, aware that something is happening.

Before he can second guess himself or alarm Crowley any further, Aziraphale plunges his hand into Crowley’s pocket and laces their fingers together. Immediately, Crowley yelps and jerks his hand out of his pocket, leaping away like he’s been burned.

“Hell’s teeth, Aziraphale!” he exclaims, stuffing his hand under his other arm.

Aziraphale has misread the situation, he sees that now. His advance was unwelcome and Crowley has been insulted by it. He feels his face fall and his bottom lip tremble as he tries to hide the depth of his disappointment.

“I’m so sorry, Crowley,” he says, quiet and miserable, staring down at his shoes.

“Your hand is like ICE!” Crowley continues, all drama. “Hey, what’s going on?”

Aziraphale finds his chin held by Crowley’s warm fingers and lifted so their gazes meet. He tries to look away but Crowley merely holds him in place and waits for him to accept the inevitable.

“What’s wrong?” Crowley asks again.

“I’m sorry, I thought it might be nice to hold your hand and, well, you’d already offered your arm so I thought I could be brave and take the next step but I suppose I overstepped and now I’ve upset you.” Aziraphale rambles, wishing he would stop but seemingly incapable of closing his mouth.

“You daft angel,” Crowley says at last. “You can hold my hand if you like. I just wasn’t expecting your corpse fingers to try and leech all the warmth from my body!”

Aziraphale tuts and looks to one side, embarrassed at his overreaction. Releasing his chin, Crowley takes hold of Aziraphale’s left hand and sandwiches it between both of his palms before rubbing vigorously, trying to bring some warmth to the skin. Aziraphale laughs, confused and delighted by turns.

“Is that something you would like, then?” he asks, tentatively, as Crowley apparently attempts to set Aziraphale’s hand on fire. “You’d be alright with holding my hand?”

“Hmm?” Crowley looks up from his task, looking so soft and distracted that Aziraphale could easily imagine that expression gracing his features after a particularly affecting kiss. “Oh, yes. I, uh, I’d be alright with it. Might even, y’know, might like the idea, actually.” Crowley blushes prettily and Aziraphale finds it quite easy to let go of the worry that had gripped him.

“Right, lovely,” he says, reclaiming his hand and taking Crowley’s purposefully, lacing their fingers together and tucking them back into Crowley’s warm pocket. “Superb.”

They walk north from Piccadilly Circus, into Soho proper and towards the bookshop, falling into the same easy stride. This silence feels lighter than before, Aziraphale decides, the potential is just as exciting but the nervousness has lowered to a gentle simmer leaving him far more able to enjoy the experience.

Crowley’s hand is soft and delicate, he can feel the bones and tendons shifting with each movement and it puts him in mind of holding a dove. It feels precious, like he has been granted some incredible privilege in being allowed to wrap his hand around something so fragile. He  _ knows _ that it’s just a hand, that he’s clasped Crowley’s hand before, in greeting and in the sealing of agreements, but this feels like so much more.

“It’s good, right?” Crowley says out of nowhere.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale answers immediately, reassuring them both as much as he can.

“Kinda means I can’t go too fast,” Crowley continues, staring ahead pointedly.

Aziraphale barely manages to bite back his answer that Crowley always walks at a perfectly reasonable speed, remembering a night not so long ago when the words “too fast” had held far more meaning than simple speed.

He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat and tries to keep his face under control, Crowley might have meant nothing more than the quickness of his walk. A glance at his expression with its tense jaw and lips pressed into a thin line quickly disabuses Aziraphale of that idea. He needs to pick his next words carefully.

“I think we could stand to go a little faster,” he says, barely daring to speak above a whisper.

Crowley’s fingers tighten around his hand, just a momentary flex, there and gone again. It’s exactly as Aziraphale suspected, although still wrapped up in so much euphemism and doublespeak. He wants to be sure that they both have the same destination in mind.

Crowley opens his mouth once, twice, thrice, before closing it decisively and giving a little shake of his head. He’s been so brave already, Aziraphale can’t fault him for defaulting to caution now.

The bookshop comes into sight, a little haven of safety and familiarity. Once they are inside, Aziraphale knows he’ll be able to say the things he needs to say, ask the questions he needs to ask. Hopefully, he’ll be able to get it all said and done before they are too deep in their cups, though. This feels like the sort of conversation that is easier when drunk, but more effective and meaningful when sober.

Giving Crowley’s hand a gentle squeeze, Aziraphale reluctantly disentangles his fingers so he can open the bookshop door, holding it for Crowley to enter first. Once their coats are off and hanging up, Aziraphale can’t help but notice the way that Crowley’s right hand hangs at his side, flexing and fidgeting as if restless. Unthinking, he reaches out to take it again only to have Crowley lean into him in response.

He leads Crowley through the shop, under the cupola and around the central stand of books. The sofa is in sight, tantalisingly close, and Crowley heads for it, appearing surprised when Aziraphale holds him back.

“Eros,” Aziraphale says, indicating the little figure at the top of the circular shelves. Crowley only looks confused.

“Yeah, you’ve had that thing over a hundred years. It’s been Eros the whole time.”

“Has it?” Aziraphale asks before realising how cryptic he’s being. Crowley’s mouth twists in uncertainty. “I’m sorry, Crowley, I’m trying to break some old habits.”

Crowley reaches up and pulls off his sunglasses, letting them hang from his fingers as he rubs his eyes, clearly reluctant to release Aziraphale’s hand.

“Alright, I’m just not following,” he says, sounding mildly frustrated. “What does Eros have to do with anything?”

“Maybe nothing,” Aziraphale admits, “maybe everything. It just seemed the best place to start. Maybe we should sit down for this.”

He leads Crowley to the sofa and they sit, still not releasing the grasp they have of each others hands.

“Making it difficult for me not to be nervous here, Aziraphale,” Crowley says, a laugh just shy of hysteria colouring his tone as he drops his glasses on the coffee table.

“That’s the last thing I want,” Aziraphale assures him, he tries a reassuring smile to back that up. “I think we have some things to discuss and I don’t want to wait any longer. May I lay out the issue as I see it?” Crowley gestures for him to continue whilst gripping Aziraphale’s hand tighter. “Thank you, dear. I am aware, as I’m sure you are, that we love each other. We have been through too much now to even bother denying it. What I can’t tell is whether we love each other in the same way. Eros or philia, storge or pragma. Now that we’re safe and can love as we wish, I find myself wondering less about speed and more about destination. Does that make any sense?”

Crowley nods, his mouth slightly open and his eyes wide. He blinks once, licks his lips, and swallows before finding his response.

“You can just sit there and acknowledge this thing we’ve been very carefully not talking about like it’s nothing.”

“It’s far from nothing! I’m terrified about having entirely the wrong idea!” Aziraphale hears his voice pitch up but can’t care enough to control it. “What if- what if you only love me as a friend? Or as a sibling? I could be happy with that, I think, but it's not what my heart really wants.”

Slowly, Crowley slides his hand free of Aziraphale’s only to open his arms and gather Aziraphale into them, drawing him closer than they’ve been in months. It is not the reaction that Aziraphale had been expecting.

“I was right, angel,” Crowley says once Aziraphale is held in his embrace. “It’s always been eros. You set the speed, but know that we are travelling in the same direction together.”

Aziraphale’s heart soars at Crowley’s words, hearing all his deepest dreams confirmed makes him want to fly to the moon. He lets himself relax into the hug, wrapping his arms around Crowley’s back so that he is holding as much as being held.

“This is a good speed,” he says, feeling warm and loved. Perhaps it might not be too much to consider a kiss before the end of the night, he thinks.

**Author's Note:**

> A very brief explanation of the terms Aziraphale uses:
> 
>  **Eros** \- Romantic love  
>  **Philia** \- Friendship love  
>  **Storge** \- Familial love  
>  **Pragma** \- Enduring love
> 
> Thank you for reading, please do let me know what you thought!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] An Inch, A Mile](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25783189) by [Love_Letter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Love_Letter/pseuds/Love_Letter)




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